The whirring sound of the Hamilton Beach Mixer
woke me on Saturday mornings
drawing me from my bedroom to the kitchen
For Cheerios and something sweet.
Bags of flour and sugar, boxes of baking soda and salt,
blocked the box up there on the kitchen counter top.
Sunlight poured through the south window by the driveway
through the flour dust floating freely over finger-marked recipes.
She paused from zesting the lemons
only to reach for the Hills Bros. coffee cup and sip.
Then back to lemon cake – sunshine in a pan
yet to be blended and baked.
The mixer stopped and she pulled back the beaters.
It was now so silky smooth.
They dripped like honey from a spoon.
She patted the pockets of her apron.
Eyes glued on the Mixer, “Can I lick them?”
“You always can – but ‘May I’ is the question.”
“May I?”
“You may if you Please.”
“Please, may I?”
Looking like a melting metal cone her hand held out one beater.
And after I said, “Thank you,” it was in my hand to taste and see.
So there was also a recipe, I learned,
for taking the bumpy out of life’s lumpy batter.
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Poem by Steven J. Pedersen for Friday September 4, 2009
